THE PROFESSOR'S OBSESSION

CHAPTER 1

The key turned in the lock with a soft click that sounded too loud in the quiet hallway. My hands were shaking—they'd been shaking since I left work early, since I'd convinced myself that surprising Marcus with his favorite takeout would fix whatever had been broken between us lately.

Three years. Three years of inside jokes and lazy Sunday mornings and planning a future that felt so real I could taste it. Three years, and he'd been distant for weeks. Cold. Always on his phone, always working late, always just out of reach when I tried to touch him.

But I was going to fix it. We were going to fix it.

I pushed the door open.

The apartment was dim, curtains drawn even though it was barely eight o'clock. The takeout bag crinkled in my grip as I stepped inside, my heels clicking on the hardwood. Something felt wrong. The air was thick, charged, and there was music playing softly from the bedroom—that playlist, the one Marcus only ever played when—

No.

My feet moved on their own, carrying me down the hallway even as my brain screamed at me to turn around, to leave, to not look. The bedroom door was open just enough. Just enough to see everything.

Her head was thrown back, blonde hair cascading down her spine as she rode him. Marcus—my Marcus—had his hands locked on her waist, his fingers digging into her pale skin hard enough to bruise. The sounds they made were obscene, primal. He groaned her name—not mine, hers—and thrust up into her so hard the headboard slammed against the wall.

Our wall. Our bed. Our f*****g sheets.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. My chest felt like it was caving in, ribs cracking one by one, lungs collapsing. The takeout bag slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud.

They didn't even notice.

She leaned down, her breasts pressing against his chest, and kissed him the way he used to kiss me—deep and desperate and consuming. His hands slid up her back, tender, possessive, and I watched him touch her like she was precious. Like she was everything.

Like I was nothing.

The sob that built in my throat died before it could escape. I stumbled backward, my vision blurring, and somehow I made it to the door. Somehow I got out.

I don't remember getting to my car. Don't remember the drive. But suddenly I was sitting in the parking lot of some bar I'd never been to, my forehead pressed against the steering wheel, and the sobs finally came.

They ripped out of me in waves, violent and ugly. My whole body shook with them. Three years. Three f*****g years, and he'd thrown it away. Thrown me away. For what? For someone prettier? Younger? Better?

Was I not enough? Had I ever been enough?

My phone buzzed. A text from him: Hey babe, working late again. Don't wait up.

The laugh that escaped me was manic, broken. Working late. Right.

I shoved the phone in my purse and got out of the car before I could think better of it.

The bar was exactly what I needed—dark, loud, anonymous. The kind of place where everyone was running from something and nobody asked questions. I pushed through the Friday night crowd to the bar and slid onto a stool.

"What can I get you?" The bartender was young, tattooed, bored.

"Tequila. Double. Actually, just leave the bottle."

He gave me a look that said he'd seen this before—heartbreak, desperation, the need to drown in something that burned—and poured me a double without argument.

I threw it back. The liquor scorched down my throat, into my stomach, spreading fire through my veins. It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough to burn away the image of her on top of him, of his hands on her body, of the way he'd said her name.

"Another."

The bartender poured.

I drank.

The world started to blur at the edges, softening, and god, that was better. Better than the sharp edges of reality. Better than the crushing weight in my chest that made it hard to breathe.

I was reaching for my third—fourth?—when I felt it. A shift in the air beside me, a presence that made my skin prickle with awareness. I turned my head, slow, and nearly swallowed my tongue.

The man who'd sat down next to me was beautiful. Not pretty-boy beautiful like Marcus, but devastating in a way that made my pulse spike. Older, mid-to-late thirties, with dark hair that looked like he'd been running his hands through it and a jaw sharp enough to cut. He wore a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms corded with muscle and a watch that probably cost more than my rent.

But it was his eyes that pinned me in place. Dark, intense, like he could see straight through me to every broken piece inside.

He wasn't looking at me though. He was staring at his phone, his brow furrowed slightly, and somehow that made him even more attractive. Untouchable. Out of my league.

I turned back to my drink.

"You're going to regret that in the morning." His voice slid over me like whiskey—smooth, dark, with a burn that came after.

I laughed, and it sounded bitter even to my own ears. "I'm already regretting tonight. What's a little more?"

He set his phone down and shifted on his stool, angling toward me. I could feel his gaze on my profile, heavy and assessing. "Bad breakup?"

"Bad everything." I lifted my glass in a mock toast and downed it. The room tilted slightly. "My boyfriend's been f*****g someone else in our bed. Probably for months. I'm an i***t for not seeing it."

"He's the idiot."

The certainty in his voice made me look at him again. He was watching me with an intensity that should've been unsettling but instead sent heat pooling low in my belly. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then back up, and the air between us crackled.

"You don't even know me," I said, but my voice came out breathless.

"I know enough." He leaned closer, and I caught his scent—expensive cologne, something woody and masculine that made me want to bury my face in his neck. "I know that any man who'd cheat on you is a f*****g moron."

My heart was pounding now, hard enough that I was sure he could hear it over the music. "And what would you do? If I was yours?"

His jaw tightened. His hand moved to the bar beside mine, not touching but close enough that I could feel the heat of him. "If you were mine, I'd make sure you never doubted it. Make sure every time you looked in the mirror, you saw what I saw. Make sure every time I touched you, you forgot anyone else ever had."

Oh god.

The rational part of my brain—the part that wasn't three sheets to the wind and drowning in heartbreak—knew this was dangerous. Knew I should thank him for the ego boost and go home. Instead, I turned on my stool until our knees touched, until I had to tilt my head back to hold his gaze.

"So touch me."

Something dark and hungry flashed in his eyes. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"Yes, I do." My hand moved to his thigh, and I felt the muscle tense under my palm. "I want to forget. Just for tonight. I want to forget he exists, forget I exist. I just want to feel something other than this." I pressed my free hand to my chest, where my heart was breaking. "Please."

For a long moment, he didn't move. Just stared at me like he was trying to read my mind, trying to figure out if I'd regret this. Then his hand came up and cupped my jaw, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip.

"My place is ten minutes from here." His voice was rough, strained. "Last chance to change your mind."

I stood up, swaying slightly, and he steadied me with a hand on my waist. The touch burned through my dress like I wasn't wearing anything at all.

"I'm not changing my mind."

I barely remember the elevator ride up to his apartment. I remember his hand on the small of my back, burning through the fabric of my dress. I remember the way he kept glancing at me like he expected me to bolt. I remember my reflection in the polished elevator doors—smudged makeup, wild eyes, a woman I didn't recognize.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened.

His apartment was all floor-to-ceiling windows and modern furniture that screamed money, but I didn't care about any of it. I walked inside and turned to face him, my back to those massive windows, and watched him lock the door.

The click of the deadbolt was loud in the silence.

He turned, leaning back against the door, and just looked at me. The intensity of his gaze made my skin feel too tight, made me hyperaware of every breath, every heartbeat.

"Come here," he said, his voice low.

I crossed the space between us on shaking legs. When I was close enough to touch, he reached out and traced one finger along my collarbone, down to the neckline of my dress. Such a light touch, barely there, but it set every nerve ending on fire.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his eyes locked on mine. "Tell me this is a mistake."

It was. God, it absolutely was. I didn't know this man's name. Didn't know anything except that when he looked at me like that—like I was the only thing in the world that mattered—I could almost forget the image of Marcus with her.

"Don't stop," I breathed.

That was all he needed.

His mouth crashed into mine, hard and demanding, and I opened for him immediately. His tongue swept past my lips, claiming, possessing, and I moaned into him. He tasted like whiskey and something darker, something that made me dizzy. His hands were everywhere—in my hair, on my waist, sliding down to grip my ass and pull me flush against him.

I could feel him hard against my stomach, and the knowledge that I did that to him, that he wanted me, made liquid heat pool between my thighs.

I clawed at his shirt, popping buttons in my desperation to get it off. He shrugged out of it without breaking the kiss, and then his hands were back on me, yanking down the zipper of my dress. The fabric pooled at my feet, leaving me in just my bra and panties.

He pulled back to look at me, his chest heaving, his eyes so dark they were almost black.

"f*****g beautiful," he growled, and then he was kissing me again, walking me backward.

My back hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. He pressed against me, pinning me there with his body, and dropped his mouth to my neck. He sucked hard, his teeth scraping over my pulse point, and I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders.

"Do you have any idea—" He bit down, and I cried out. "—what you're doing to me?"

His hand slid up my thigh, under the edge of my panties, and when his fingers found how wet I was, he groaned like he was in pain.

"Christ, Ava. You're soaked."

I didn't even remember telling him my name, but hearing it in his rough voice made me clench around nothing. "Please—"

"Please what?" His fingers circled but didn't push inside, teasing, tormenting. "Tell me what you want."

"You. I want you. Please, I need—"

He hooked his hands under my thighs and lifted me like I weighed nothing. My legs wrapped around his waist automatically, and the pressure of him against me, even through his pants, made me whimper.

"I've got you," he murmured against my mouth. "I've got you."

He carried me through the apartment—down a hallway, through a doorway—and then I was falling, bouncing slightly as my back hit a massive bed. He stood at the foot of it, his hands going to his belt, and I propped myself up on my elbows to watch.

The clink of his belt buckle was obscenely loud. He held my gaze as he undid his pants, pushed them down along with his boxers, and oh god.

He was big. Thick and hard and I suddenly understood why he'd been holding back.

"We don't have to—" he started, but I was already reaching for him.

"Get up here."

He crawled over me, caging me in with his arms, and the weight of him on top of me felt right in a way nothing had in months. He kissed me again, slower this time, deep and thorough, while his hands worked my bra off, then my panties. When we were both finally naked, skin against skin, I felt like I could breathe for the first time all night.

"Tell me again," he said, his forehead pressed to mine. "Tell me you want this."

I wrapped my hand around him, and he hissed through his teeth. "I want this. I want you. Please."

He reached over to the nightstand, fumbled for a condom, and rolled it on with shaking hands. Then he was back, settling between my thighs, and I felt the blunt pressure of him against my entrance.

"Look at me," he commanded.

I did. I looked into those dark, intense eyes as he pushed inside, slow and steady, stretching me, filling me. My breath caught. It was almost too much—the fullness, the intimacy, the way he watched my face like he was memorizing every reaction.

"Okay?" His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping.

I nodded, unable to form words, and lifted my hips.

He pulled back and thrust in again, harder this time, and I gasped. Yes. That. More of that.

He set a rhythm that was slow and deep and deliberate, each thrust hitting something inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids. His mouth was on my neck, my collarbone, my breasts. His hands were everywhere, touching, claiming, worshipping.

"That's it," he growled against my ear. "Take it. Take all of me."

I was. God, I was, and it still wasn't enough. I needed more, needed him deeper, harder, needed him to f**k away every thought of Marcus and that blonde and—

"Harder," I gasped. "Please, I need—"

He hooked my leg over his shoulder and the new angle made him hit even deeper. I cried out, my back arching off the bed.

"Like that?" He thrust in hard, punctuating the question.

"Yes! God, yes, just like—"

He didn't let me finish. He f****d me hard and fast, the headboard slamming against the wall, the obscene sound of skin on skin filling the room. His thumb found my c**t and circled, and I shattered.

The o****m ripped through me like a wildfire, consuming everything. I screamed his name—except I didn't know his name, so it came out as just a wordless cry. My whole body seized, clenching around him, and he groaned, his rhythm faltering.

"f**k, I'm—" He thrust once, twice more, then stilled, his whole body going rigid as he came.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. We just breathed, tangled together, and I felt the tears sliding down my temples into my hair.

But they weren't tears of sadness anymore.

They were tears of relief.

I woke up slowly, awareness creeping in piece by piece. Soft sheets. Sunlight. The worst headache of my entire life.

And the warm, solid presence of another body next to mine.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

It all came rushing back—Marcus, the bar, this man, this bed. My eyes flew open and I stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, my heart racing. What had I done? What the hell had I done?

I turned my head carefully.

He was still asleep, one arm thrown over his head, the sheet riding dangerously low on his hips. In the morning light streaming through those massive windows, he was even more devastating. All carved muscle and golden skin and—

Were those scratches down his chest?

Oh god. Those were my scratches.

I needed to leave. Now. Before he woke up and this got even more awkward than it already was.

I slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, my head pounding with every movement. My dress was on the floor. So was my bra. My panties were... somewhere. I gave up looking for them and just pulled on my dress, hopping on one foot as I tried to get my heels on.

The zipper on my dress was stuck. Of course it was. I twisted and pulled and—

"Leaving without saying goodbye?"

I froze. Turned slowly.

He was awake now, propped up on one elbow, watching me with an unreadable expression. His hair was a mess—from sleep or from my hands, I wasn't sure—and there was a hickey blooming on his neck that made my face burn.

"I... I have to go."

He sat up fully, and the sheet fell to his waist. I forced myself to keep my eyes on his face. "Stay for coffee at least. You look like you need it."

"I really can't—"

"Coffee," he said firmly, standing up. He pulled on his boxers, completely unselfconscious, and I tried not to stare at the muscles flexing in his back as he moved. "And aspirin. Trust me, you're going to need both."

He wasn't wrong. My head was killing me and my mouth tasted like death. And maybe... maybe coffee would help me figure out how to sneak out gracefully.

"Okay," I heard myself say. "Coffee."

His kitchen was gorgeous—all marble countertops and high-end appliances. He moved around it with the ease of someone who actually knew how to cook, pulling out an espresso machine that probably cost more than my car.

I perched on one of the bar stools, hyperaware that I was wearing last night's dress and probably looked like I'd been hit by a truck. He kept his back to me as he worked, and I tried not to notice the way his shoulders moved under his t-shirt, the way his sweatpants hung low on his hips.

"So," he said casually, "are you going to tell me your name, or should I keep thinking of you as 'the beautiful woman who came apart in my bed'?"

Despite everything, I felt myself smile. "Ava. My name's Ava."

"Ava." He said it slowly, like he was tasting it. Then he turned, sliding a perfect cappuccino across the counter. "Nice to officially meet you. I'm—"

"Professor Jameson."

The words came from behind me, and the coffee mug slipped from my fingers in slow motion. It shattered on the marble floor, coffee spraying everywhere, but I couldn't look away from the doorway.

Where a woman in a university sweatshirt stood, holding a stack of papers, staring at us both with wide eyes.

No. No no no no—

"Ava?" The man—Professor Jameson—set down his coffee carefully. "Are you—"

"You're Professor Jameson." My voice didn't sound like my own. "You're Dr. Richard Jameson. You teach Advanced Media Theory."

It wasn't a question, but he nodded slowly, his expression going carefully blank. "And you're a student."

The woman in the doorway—his teaching assistant, I realized—cleared her throat. "I'll just... I'll leave these here." She set the papers on the entry table and practically ran out.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. I'd just slept with my professor. My professor. The one whose class I was supposed to start on Monday.

"I have to go." I was already moving, grabbing my purse, searching desperately for my missing panties and giving up.

"Ava, wait—"

"No." I held up a hand, not looking at him. I couldn't look at him. "This didn't happen. This can't have happened."

"We need to talk about—"

"There's nothing to talk about." I was at the door now, yanking it open. "We both need to forget this ever happened. We have to."

I didn't wait for his response. I ran.